The Things That I Am
by Tjix
Summary: Brianna's good at what she does. One of the best. Yet, when told to take out two men from South Boston, she finds it beyond her. Is this a lack of skill or divine intervention? Post BS1, rated for language.
1. Assassin

(((Dedication: Dedicated to the two people who were with me when I watched Boondock Saints for the first time

(((Dedication: Dedicated to the two people who were with me when I watched Boondock Saints for the first time. You know who you are.

Summary: Brianna O'Keefe is good at what she does. One of the best. Yet, when confronted with the task of assassinating two young men in the slums of South Boston, she finds the stint beyond her. Is this a lack of skill on her part... or is it divine intervention?

Disclaimer: I don't own Boondock Saints or the things that go with it. I do own Brianna, Yochlov, and perhaps a few other characters that could pop up here or there. I think you'll know who's mine.

Info: This is a pure Boondock Saints strain and nonromantic. Rated for language. Post-movie.

Author Notes: I know that the general population is not sure which twin is younger, but I know... I _know_... that Murphy is younger. I just _know_. Sometimes you gotta go with the gut instinct.)))

**The Things That I Am**

**By: Tjix**

**Introduction: Assassin**

Nineteen-year-old Brianna O'Keefe picked her way carefully through the loft. The place was a mess. Clothes were strewn about everywhere. The beds were unmade and half a cup of cold coffee was still on the table. The refrigerator had been left hanging open. A damp towel hung over the bare shower-curtain rod.

Bri was careful not to touch anything. She could not leave any mark, any way of telling that she had been here. Although, in truth, she doubted that her targets would notice--they were hardly experts. Still, better safe than sorry--or rather, better cautious than dead.

Brianna surveyed the room with dark eyes that glinted green in the light. A strand of her wavy Irish-red hair had gotten loose from her efficient bun and drifted into her face. She brushed it back with a pale, freckled hand.

There didn't seem to be anywhere to hide here. The room was so bare--there wasn't even a shower curtain! The mattresses were on the floor. The table was tall--there was no way she could hide under there without being spotted. The refrigerator was pressed into a corner, with no space between itself and the wall.

She needed _somewhere _to hide. Her job was to scope out the MacManus brothers (who lived in the loft)--to find their habits, their strengths, and most importantly, their weaknesses.

Brianna had been sent as a spy--and, when the time was right, an assassin--for the Russian government. The MacManus brothers, the so-called "Saints of South Boston" had been slaughtering prominent Russian citizens in the dozens, and the Russian government had decided that it needed to stop.

Brianna O'Keefe had been selected for two reasons. First and foremost, she was good at what she did. One of the best, in fact. Top of her class. The youngest professional in the entire organization. A trained and talented spy. A trained and talented assassin.

Secondly, on the off chance that she was caught, it was assumed that the MacManus twins would show more mercy to an Irish female (especially a young one) than to a Russian male. The records showed that the "Saints" had an aversion to harming women and children in any way. The fact that she was Irish certainly would not hurt her cause for survival.

A faint noise made Brianna freeze and perk her head. Footsteps were heading in this direction. She judged that they were maybe fifteen or sixteen feet away. She had to hide _now_.

Bri looked around, keeping her cool. _There's always something_, she reminded herself. _A good spy can always find something._

The rafters. They were her only chance. But how to get up there?

The footsteps were only about twelve feet away. Bri opened her eyes wide and looked around again. _There's always something!_

There was a chair standing by the refrigerator. She stepped up onto it and dug her fingers into the top of the refrigerator, pausing only to say a quick prayer that she would not pull the huge appliance over on herself.

Nine feet away.

Steeling herself, Brianna hoisted herself up, scrambling as the refrigerator groaned in protest. She dragged herself to the top and stood, whispering thanks that she had made it.

There was no time to celebrate; the footsteps were only five feet away from the door. Bri reached up into the rafters, locking her fingers onto a wooden bar almost twice as thick as her waist. She coiled her muscles and jumped, pulling herself up with her arms as she did. Her muscles protested painfully, but she managed to haul herself up onto the crosspiece.

The door opened.

Easily hiding her slim body behind the wide slab of wood, Brianna eased along on her elbows until she could see who had entered.

Connor and Murphy MacManus stumbled back into their home. Connor collapsed on his bed while Murphy dropped into a chair by the table. The younger MacManus twin peeled off his sweaty, hematic shirt, grimacing in pain. His chest was smeared with blood and darkened with bruises.

"Fuck," he breathed in his crisp, light Irish voice. He was examining a long gash on his side. "I really should have seen the fuckin' knife comin'..."

"Nah, that'n was a quick one," Connor said in his deeper, more thickly accented voice. "I didn't see the hilt comin' at _me_." The older twin reached up and touched his black eye, wincing at the stinging ache. He groaned and scrubbed at his dirty, bloody face. "I think I broke a couple o' ribs..." Sitting up slowly, he winced again and ran an agitated hand through his hair.

"Myself as well," said Murphy, pulling a face. He poked himself in the ribs, tightening his lips at the resulting jolt of pain.

Brianna watched them from the rafters. She took note of the blonde's well-muscled arms and shoulders, of the fighter's grace with which the brunette moved. She mentally reminded herself of the names; Connor was the blonde, Murphy the brunette. She could see the difference in their temperaments. Connor was filled with restless potential, a racing horse at a starting gate. Murphy was all passion and fun, an excited spark waiting to blossom into a raging fire.

"But it was worth it, eh?" Murphy continued. "Those motherfuckers won't be bothering innocent civilians again anytime soon..."

_Innocent civilians?_

"Definitely not," Connor said with a smile.

"I need a fuckin' shower," Murphy grumbled, and began to undress.

Brianna struggled with herself for a moment as Murphy removed his jeans. Prudishness winning out over her femenine curiousity, the redhead turned her face away from him. She could spend the time watching Connor instead.

The young assassin had been taking the measure of the brothers. They were both obviously strong fighters. They were well-versed in the ways of bar fights and alleyway tussles. However, when compared to her years of harsh training as a government assassin, they were practically rookies. Perhaps she was being cocky, but she had good reason.

"I hate how the people think that we're more dangerous than the fuckin' bastards we kill," Murphy said from the shower.

"Not all of them do," Connor replied without opening his eyes. "Why do you think we've been called 'Saints'?"

"Yeah, but some of them seem to think we'll be going after their children next..." Murphy sighed. "I mean, we only go after the gangsters and the drug dealers. It's not like we just attack any old motherfucker. Just the mafia, and the murderers, and the rapists, and the child molesters. I mean, we're like, the Dynamic Duo, you know? Vigilante justice. Batman. Lone fuckin' Ranger."

_Is that so?_ Brianna thought coldly. _That's not what I heard, MacManus._

"I know, Murphy, I know," Connor groaned. "But _they_ don't know that. They only know what they're told. They only know that we kill whoever we fuckin' want. They only know that we haven't been caught. They only know that the police won't do anything."

_That's what I'm here for, precious,_ Brianna wanted to say. _I'm here because no one else can do a thing about you two murderers. Vigilantes, my foot. You're loose cannons. That's what you are._

"No one ever fuckin' listens to us when we tell them that God gave us this shit..." Murphy growled. "Is it so hard to believe? He's done it before..."

The sound of water stopped abruptly. Bri turned her face away again, listening to the rustle of cloth as Murphy got dressed. Although she would not admit it to herself, her resolve was wavering. If the things she had heard from the twins were true, they destroyed her reasons for assassinating them. They weren't just killing off Russian citizens; they were killing mafia members, and they just happened to start with the Russians.

_"_They_ don't know that. They only know what they're told."_ Connor's words resonated in her head. All she really knew of the Saints was what certain members of the Russian government had chosen to tell her. She had simply accepted the information and set out to do her job, as she always did. Perhaps that was a mistake.

_"They only know what they're told..."_


	2. Deserter

(((A/Ns: Bible Verse References: Genesis 9: 5-7 NIV, Matthew 16:24 HCSB, Mark 8:34 HCSB, Luke 9:23 HCSB)))

(((A/Ns: Bible Verse References: Genesis 9: 5-7 NIV, Matthew 16:24 HCSB, Mark 8:34 HCSB, Luke 9:23 HCSB)))

**Chapter One: Deserter**

It was deep into the night. The twins had fallen asleep long ago, but Brianna had waited, wanting to be sure. Caution paid well in the job of an assassin.

Nothing indicated to her that the Saints were a force to be reckoned with. They did not seem especially well-trained or powerful. She was surprised they had lived this long, really. They were just two amateurs who had gotten lucky a few times and picked up some scars along the way. There had to be something else, some outside force that they depended on to get them through their fights.

Without a sound, Brianna drew a silenced derringer. Two well-aimed shots and she could be on her way, back to Russia for a break before the next job. Just two shots.

She aimed carefully, right between Murphy's closed eyes. Her finger was on the trigger. Why hadn't she pulled it yet? Bri struggled, grappling with something she could not begin to understand. Her hands trembled. She fought to keep steady and aimed again. Yet, she found that she could not make herself take the shot. At last, she put the derringer away.

_What's happening to me?_

Her hands shook violently. She strove to keep calm. She could not understand what had stopped her. Something was keeping her from killing these men, and she did not know what it was.

_Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed; for in the image of God has God made man._

The words flitted through her mind on a wind of memory and were gone just as quickly.

Brianna stilled.

_"No one ever fuckin' listens to us when we tell them that God gave us this shit..."_

Murphy's voice faded from her mind. Brianna shut her eyes.

_Help me out here,_ she thought tensely. _If these guys are really doing what You told them to, show me. As old-fashioned as it sounds, if I could have a sign, that would be great..._

With a gasp, Murphy sat up in bed. His breath came hard and heavy. He looked around frantically. "Who's there?" he called softly.

Brianna stiffened, certain that she had made no sound or motion that could have alerted the young man to her presence.

_Was that You?_ she asked silently. She was given no reply, and expected none; she knew the answer. Murphy had been exhausted. He had no reason to wake on his own; he had to have been woken by an outside force.

_Even I can take a hint,_ Brianna thought dryly. _I get it. The Saints are Yours. They're untouchable, as far as I'm concerned._

Murphy was still staring into the darkness, eyes wide and searching. He knew someone was there. He _knew_. He could hear nothing except his own breathing and Connor's gentle snores. He could see nothing out of its place. Still, someone was there. He was sure of it.

"Hello?" he said quietly, for fear of waking Connor. His voice wavered. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Who's there? I know you're around here somewhere. Show yourself!"

Brianna was confused. He couldn't possibly mean her. She had made not a single sound. It was too dark to see her, and he wasn't looking up anyway. He _couldn't_ mean her...

Murphy narrowed his eyes, searching the darkness in vain. Connor would know what to do, he decided. Jerking his blanket off, the dark-haired MacManus stood up and started for his sleeping twin.

_He's going to wake up Connor!_ Brianna bit her lip, thinking fast. She had to keep this as simple as possible. With both of the boys searching for her, they might find her, which was not to be allowed. However, if she tried to stop Murphy, she would have to betray her presence to him; he might even be able to ID her later.

Better to be revealed on _her_ terms. Brianna breathed deeply and took the leap from the rafters to the floor.

She landed, catlike, behind Murphy. Praying that she could keep him quiet, she kicked the back of his knees and caught him as he fell, surprised. Knowing that she could not hold him if he struggled--her physical strength was far inferior to his--she quickly grabbed his bare shoulders and spun him, shoving him onto his vacated bed and pushing his face into the mattress to muffle any sound he might make. She deftly twisted his arms behind his back and held them there, leaning onto him and placing her cheek on the back of his dark head to keep his face in the mattress.

She knew she was taking a chance; if he tried, he could throw her off without too much effort. She was wagering on his surprise at the sudden assault.

"Don't say a word," she breathed next to his ear, intentionally dropping her voice several octaves and speaking through her nose, giving the command a nasal quality. "Just listen. I'm going to leave. I will not be bothering you. If you're a good boy, you'll never hear from me again. Do you understand?"

Murphy nodded. He was tense, but he did not struggle; he seemed curious to hear what she had to say.

"Don't come after me," Brianna continued. "Don't try to find me or figure out who I am. You needn't know; with luck, our paths will never cross again. Understand?"

He nodded again.

"Any questions?"

Nod.

She lifted her head and allowed him to turn his face. Keeping herself out of his eyesight, she leaned in close to hear him.

"Could you ease up a bit?" he whispered. "This is fuckin' hell on my ribs."

Cocking an eyebrow, Bri arched her back, gently lifted her body off of his. He sighed in audible relief, reminding Brianna forcefully of the dark bruises marring his lean torso.

Nervously--he might still attack her--she let go of his wrists with one hand and touched his side. He flinched as her fingers lightly brushed his injuries, but made no complaint. She traced along the bruises until she came to the gash. The blood had clotted nicely, but the scab was still tender, judging from Murphy's sharp intake of breath.

Compassion stirred faintly within her. She was a professional assassin, but she was also a nineteen-year-old girl with an instinctual motherliness.

"Get those bruises looked at," she told him softly. "They'll be a long time in healing." Before he could reply, she hit a pressure point at the base of his neck. He slumped limply onto the bed. She dragged him back onto the bed and pulled the blanket over him. Hopefully, when he woke, he would think it had all been a dream.

As she noiselessly made her exit, it occurred to her that she could have simply hit his pressure point in the first place; the entire discussion had been unnecessary.

Cursing herself furiously, Brianna quelled her instant alarm. It wasn't like her to be so careless! What was happening to her?

The phone dialed, then clicked. "Finished already, O'Keefe?" a male voice drawled. "Your usual efficiency. Those idiots didn't stand a fucking chance."

For some reason, this remark sparked anger and resentment in her. _They're not _idiots_. They're just untrained._ Squashing her impulsive desire to snap the cell phone in half and spit on the pieces, Brianna coolly said, "No, Yochlov, they're still alive. I need to talk to the шеф." The Russian word for "boss" rolled easily off her tongue. Although she still kept up with her native tongue--Gaelic--her accent had been nearly wiped out by years of working among Russians and Americans.

"Well, the шеф don't wanna fucking talk to _you_. He won't talk to you 'til the fucking job's done."

Bri's lips tightened. "Then _you_ talk to him. Tell him I said I'm not doing it. These guys are just doing what they should. In fact, they're doing what _we _should be doing. They're killing _mafia members_. Tell the шеф that he should shut his mouth and be happy for their help."

The man on the other end swore, loudly and explosively. "Are you fucking KIDDING me?! This shit could be considered fucking _desertion_!" he yelled.

Brianna held the phone well away from her ear. "I know."

"You'll be fucking killed for it!"

For a moment, her resolve trembled and she considered changing her mind. The thought was gone as quickly as it had come. "I know."

"Fuck, O'Keefe. Fuck. This is not good. This is bad. This is really fucking bad."

"I'll be fine."

"Fuck _you_, O'Keefe, I'm worried about _myself_! _I'm_ the one who has to tell the fucking шеф about this!" He was yelling again.

Brianna rolled her eyes. "You'll talk your way around it, Yochlov. You always do. Good luck."

"_Fuck_..."

"Have a nice life."

He was quiet for a moment. "...You too, O'Keefe. What's left of it..."

Bri flipped the phone shut and stared at it. This was her last chance for life. She could call Yochlov back and tell him that she had changed her mind. All she had to do was pop off two little gunshots. Her life--and her career--would be safe. Anyway, if she deserted, they would just send someone else after the Irish twins. Better that two of them die than all three of them.

_Take up your cross and follow Me._

She closed her eyes.

_Take up your cross..._

She should call him—why sacrifice herself when the twins would die anyway? Somehow, she could not make herself move.

_...and follow me._

Brianna O'Keefe dropped the cell phone on the ground and crushed it beneath her heel.


	3. Rescuer

(((A/Ns: Time for some good old Irish slang

(((A/Ns: Time for some good old Irish slang!

Molly: "wimp" or "pansy"

Cuttie: "young girl"

Bird: "attractive young girl"

Berco: "drunk"

Gersha: "young girl"

Dry up: "shut up"

Gingernut: "redheaded person"

And a touch of Russian—_Irelandskii _is someone from Ireland.)))

**Chapter Two: Rescuer**

"I fuckin' swear, Conn! She was here!"

"Away with ye! Ye're fuckin' _berco_."

"No I'm not! No I fuckin' am not! Connor, you have to fuckin' believe me!"

Connor looked into Murphy's pleading eyes and sighed. After years of trusting each other absolutely and without reserve, he could not turn his back on his twin now. "Alrigh', then. What did the lass look like?"

"I told you, I couldn't fuckin' see her."

"Aye. Ye fuckin' told me. Tell me again what was said."

Murphy recounted his tale once again, and Connor listened carefully. He leaned back in his chair.

"What do you make of it?" Murphy asked when he had finished, eager for his twin's views.

Connor shrugged. "I don't know _what_ to make of it."

"I think we should try to find her," Murphy exclaimed.

"She told ye not to look for her..."

"I know, but _fuck_, Connor, she can't really have expected me to just stew in my own fuckin' curiosity!"

"I think that's exactly what she expected."

"I want to find her! We don't fuckin' have anything else to do anyway!"

"And just how do ye expect to fuckin' find a _gersha_ that ye know nothing about, not even what she fuckin' _looks like_?"

Murphy opened his mouth to say--what? He closed it again, considering. "Shit! Good question. Fuck."

"When ye know the fuckin' answer to that good fuckin' question, we can think about going out to look for yer little _bird_."

The dark-haired twin pouted. "Fuck you."

"Fuck ye, too, ye molly boy!"

"Fuck you first, you pansy!"

Before they knew it, they were rolling around on the floor, pounding on each other like good respectable Irishmen should. However, communicating without speaking in their uncanny way, they were oddly gentle with one another. Murphy cautiously skirted Connor's broken ribs and Connor carefully avoided Murphy's bruised chest.

The fight ended with Connor lying on the floor on his back, laughing. Murphy was next to him, on his stomach with his chin propped in his hands, grinning his head off.

"Ye're such a fuckin' pansy," Connor laughed, giving his twin a playful shove.

"And you're a fuckin' hypocrite! You gave up before meself."

"Ye're a fuckin' liar!"

"_Como dices, loco,_" Murphy said in fluent Spanish. ("As you say, crazy man.")

"_Que mentiroso eres, hermano menor!_" Connor responded. ("What a liar you are, little brother!")

"We don't fuckin' know that I'm younger!" Agitated, Murphy had switched back to English.

Connor laughed and affectionately ruffled his twin's dark hair. "_I_ know. Ye're my little brother, and ye always will be... ye fuckin' molly boy."

With a playful growl, Murphy jumped on his brother and started the wrestling match back up.

Brianna found herself powerfully and inexplicably drawn back to the MacManus brothers' home. She really had no reason to return... but then, she supposed, she had no reason _not_ to return. Her life was forfeit. She might as well do what she wanted for a while before she died. And she wanted to see the twins again. She could not explain why, even to herself.

Waiting until they were out for a smoke, she crept back into their apartment with little effort. Settling back into her hiding place in the rafters, she waited for the twins to return.

Murphy MacManus burst through the door, laughing and fleeing his good-naturedly irate brother. Connor chased him with a shout of, "Gimme the fuckin' cigarettes back!"

Brianna found herself grinning at the ease with which the boys bantered and capered about. They obviously cared deeply for each other, and they were very comfortable in each others' presence. When Connor's ribs started to bother him, Murphy seemed to just somehow _know_. He quickly eased up.

A strange, sick feeling in her chest startled the redhead. She searched herself and found that, to her shock and chagrin, she longed to be down there with them. She wanted so badly to be able to trust someone as much as the brothers trusted each other.

She didn't want to remain an outsider for the rest of her days. She didn't want to be nothing but an angel of death. She could be the executioner; despite her blatant femininity, she _was_ cut out for the job. But that wasn't all she wanted. She wanted more.

She wanted what they had; an un-split life, but one that had more to it than the death of the evil.

A sound apart from the brothers' repartee made the assassin twitch. She cocked her head carefully, wishing impatiently that the boys would hush so that she could hear properly.

She tensed. Heavy footsteps pounded toward them, but Connor and Murphy were too busy laughing to hear it.

Who could be coming?

The door burst open. The twins stopped laughing and looked up, surprised.

There was a frozen moment.

Then, everyone exploded into movement. Murphy was scrambling for a gun hidden under his pillow, swearing at the top of his lungs in a dozen different languages. Connor had stood abruptly, his chair toppling over backwards, his eyes flashing.

Black-clad men wearing masks and toting large guns flooded into the room, spreading out to circle the Saints. The twins were surrounded in no time at all.

One of the men slammed the butt of his gun into Connor's temple. As the older MacManus slumped, Murphy clenched his fists and gritted his teeth.

An especially large black-clad man reached his hand under Murphy's chin and forced his face up. White-hot fury blazed in the dark-haired Irishman's eyes, but he was wise enough to know that he would be shot six different ways before he could move.

"It's definitely them," said the man, speaking with a distinctly Russian accent. He chuckled. "I'm surprised that the _Irelandskii_ girl, O'Keefe, didn't massacre these guys. They were simply _too_ easy. And she's supposed to be a professional."

He seemed ready to deliver another taunt, but there was a popping noise and he froze. Blood blasted outward from a gaping black hole in his face. Then he slowly keeled over, a derringer slug planted firmly in his brain.

The men immediately started moving, making themselves more difficult targets and searching for the shooter.

Brianna settled her shoulders, stretched out on her stomach on top of the crosspiece, and took aim again. Another would-be assassin went down with a derringer bullet to the head.

Murphy had taken the hint and moved quickly. The gun from under his pillow was in his hand. Two gunshots went off and another couple of black-suited men went down.

Soon all of the assailants were lying on the floor in a bloody heap. Murphy dropped his gun and ran to Connor. He checked his brother's pulse, then shook him gently. "Conn? Connor? Fuck. C'mon, Connor... c'mon, you fuckin' pansy... wake up..."

Brianna dropped from the rafters and strode over to the brothers. Kneeling, she touched Connor's temple. Her fingers came away sticky with blood.

"Who the hell _are_ you?" Murphy demanded. "Why'd you fuckin' help us?"

"I didn't," she said coolly. "I was helping myself. The Russian insulted my professionalism. I wanted to make him regret it." But she wondered privately if that was the whole of it. Certainly, the insult had made her angry. Yet, it seemed that, even more than the insult, the attack on the twins made her want to drop her cool and start shooting like a madwoman.

"Then you're O'Keefe."

She nodded.

He swore. "Fuck! That means you'll be wantin' to kill us as well, I suppose?"

She shook her head.

"But he said..."

"He was misinformed. I dropped this mission only a couple of days after I got it." She examined Connor. "He doesn't seem too badly hurt, but he'll be unconscious for a while yet. Can you carry him?"

"Why?"

"You can't stay here."

"And why the fuckin' hell not?" Murphy asked, aggravated.

Brianna bit back a sharp retort, reminding herself firmly that he was simply concerned for Connor. "It's too dangerous," she said, keeping her voice gentle. "If you stay, they'll come back for you--and Connor. It's not safe."

"And I suppose you know somewhere that is..." Murphy said uneasily.

"I do." She nodded. She pointed to the light-haired twin. "Now pick him up and come with me."

"How do I fuckin' know I can trust you?"

"You don't." She looked at him squarely. "Have you any choice?"

He frowned. "No." For a moment he struggled with himself. Then he said, "Listen up, aye? If this is a trap and something fuckin' happens to me brother, there will be hell to pay, and you'll be the first on the fuckin' debt list."

She did not miss the fact that he had not said, "something happens to _me_" or "to _us_"; he had said "to _my brother_." He was too busy worrying about Connor to worry about his own safety.

It touched her.

"Heard and understood," she said calmly. Murphy nodded shortly and knelt down. With some grunting and struggling, he managed to get his older brother draped over his shoulders.

Standing with a groan, he looked at Bri. "Lead on, lass."

Murphy followed Brianna to her hideout there in Boston. In almost every major city in Russia and America, she had a little cubbyhole to retreat to should things turn sour at some point. This one was small and bare, but clean. The plumbing was in good shape, at least. And, Brianna thought dryly, at least it had _doors_.

"Lay him on the couch," she instructed Murphy briskly. "Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

"Not really," Murphy muttered distractedly, laying Connor gently on the couch.

Brianna watched him for a moment, knowing better than to believe him. He didn't think he had any appetite, but he would feel better with a hot drink. Perhaps a coffee. Or maybe some chamomile tea would be better. The Irish girl went to the kitchen to search through her stores.

Connor groaned. His eyelids flickered. Murphy leaned over him. "Conn?" he whispered.

"Murph?" Connor mumbled. His eyes focused slowly on his brother. "What happened? Where are the fuckin' metalmen?"

Murphy chuckled weakly. "It's quite a tale. Suffice to say I think we have a guardian angel. Fuck it, maybe she's the fuckin' grim reaper. I'm not sure which."

Brianna leaned on the doorframe in the kitchen doorway, smiling darkly at Murphy's comment. Two mugs of hot tea steamed in her hands.

Connor noticed her. "And that would be her, then?" he inquired, jerking his chin in her direction.

Murphy turned around, saw her, and nodded. "Aye. That's her."

Bri walked over and handed a cup of tea to each twin. "How do you feel?" she asked Connor.

"Like shit," the lighter-haired man said grimly, rubbing his temple.

Murphy smacked the back of his brother's head. "Connor! For shame, sayin' such things in front of a _cuttie_!"

"Aw, dry up, Murph! I'm sure ye've sullied the _gingernut's_ pretty little ears with yer dirty mouth already anyway."

They began to insult each other in a large variety of languages, their voices rising and falling in waves. Brianna watched them, bemused and unsure how to proceed.

What was she going to do with these two?


	4. Loner

(((A/Ns: When Connor speaks to Murphy in Gaelic, he is saying that Murphy going outside with Brianna will put her in more danger, as well

(((A/Ns: When Connor speaks to Murphy in Gaelic, he is saying that Murphy going outside with Brianna will put _her_ in more danger, as well. He says that Brianna is being searched for by the Russian government, but being seen with Murphy will bring down not only Russians but _every mob in Boston_ on her head.

Also, try to keep in mind that this story is nonromantic. I must admit I would react nearly the same way as Brianna does if I saw all of poor Murphy's painful violet bruises.

This chapter is mostly character development—not a lot of plot in it.)))

**Chapter Three: Loner**

"I'm going back," Brianna informed Murphy.

Murphy's head jerked up sharply. He had drawn up a chair next to the couch where Connor now slept and had been sitting there for hours. "Back?"

"You two left everything behind. All your clothes, guns, everything. I'm just going to get a few of your things. Then I'm going to pick up groceries. I'll be back in two hours." She was already slipping her derringer into a hidden sheath in her belt and picking her house key up off the table.

"Alrigh', then," Murphy said uneasily. "Be dog-fuckin'-wide, you hear?"

"I will." She knew the slang phrase to mean "be extremely careful." "If Connor wakes up, make sure he gets plenty to drink." She turned to leave.

"Wait!" Murphy called. She stopped at the door, not turning, but waiting. "I don't even know your fuckin' name."

What to tell him? Should she make up something? Could she risk giving him her real name? Well, he already knew her surname. Besides, it was unlikely that he'd be going to the police with this—being a convict himself, and all.

"It's Brianna," she said quietly. "Brianna O'Keefe." Then she was gone.

"Brianna," Murphy repeated to himself, testing it. Not too shabby. A good Irish name.

He stretched and winced as his muscles protested. Hell, he was stiff. He needed a good shower to loosen him up some. Touching Connor's shoulder—as much to reassure himself as his comatose brother—he stood and went in search of a restroom.

Bri sifted through the boys' belongings. She already had a neat stack of clean clothes and other necessities, like toothbrushes, cigarettes, and extra bullets. Their guns hung at her hips.

She finished quickly and turned to leave.

Her eyes crossed. There was a gun barrel pointed at the bridge of her nose.

"Just stay still and I don't have to hurt—"

Before the threat was even completed, Brianna ducked. She knew that the last thing an average hit-man expected was to be attacked by a supposed victim. They didn't seem to grasp the concept—nor, generally, did their hostages—that the victims' chances for survival were much greater if the attacker was kept on the defensive.

Ramming the man's stomach with her head, she grabbed his wrist and twisted. She jabbed her thumbnail under his. Screaming, he dropped the gun and yanked his hand away. Bri rolled away, grabbed the gun, and took a cool, steady aim. One gunshot rang out. Two.

The man went down, stained with crimson.

Brianna looked at the gun and dropped it in disgust. It had the man's fingerprints all over it, the silly fool. He had neglected to wear gloves.

"Amateur," Brianna whispered.

Murphy walked out of the steamy bathroom, his dark hair dripping, a towel wrapped loosely around his waist. He strode into the living room and swore as he remembered that he had nothing to change into.

"That's not a very nice word," said Brianna's dry voice from behind him.

He spun around quickly. She stood a few feet away, holding a set of clothes out to him.

The Irishman blushed. "I thought you said—"

"Something happened. I decided to come home early."

His towel had slid halfway down his hips; he tugged at it sheepishly. Brianna's eyes flicked up and down his body, widening almost imperceptibly when she saw that the bruises on his chest were deep purple and tender-looking.

Setting the clothes down on a chair, Bri walked slowly to Murphy. He dared not move, almost dared not breathe, as she timidly reached her hand out and touched the bruises. Murphy flinched, but did not move or speak. He was afraid of frightening her off, as he might be with a shy woodland animal.

She bit her lip. "They've gotten worse."

"Aye," he said softly, still nervous about startling her. "They'll get worse before they get better."

She knew that rule from experience, but what a difference between seeing it on her own body and seeing it on someone else's! Her fingers stroked the purple bruises gently. "...are you okay?" she asked hesitantly, spreading her hands flat on his chest, as if covering the wounds would make them go away.

Murphy winced, fighting his instinctive urge to recoil. Brianna's hands were cool and gentle against the dull ache of the bruises. "Aye... I'm fine."

This was so odd for Bri. She had hardly gotten this close to a person in the last six years without pulling a trigger of some kind. Assassins worked alone. Perhaps that was a weakness, but it was the way things were done. She didn't know how to handle trying to help someone instead of hurting them. It was the reverse of everything that she had been doing for half a dozen years.

Murphy gently removed her hands and smiled. "Excuse me while I get decent." He picked up the clothes she had placed on the chair and disappeared into the bathroom.

Brianna stood for a moment, then went and sat on the edge of the couch where Connor slept. It shook her to see those bruises. She had been more or less alone for such a long time now. She knew her limits, knew what she could handle and what she couldn't. She knew how much pain she could endure. But she didn't know Murphy. She didn't know how to prevent herself from hurting him more.

The redhead could not contain a smile as she looked down at Connor. _He _knew Murphy. The twins seemed able to communicate with a touch, a glance, a mere flickering of the eyes. She was almost convinced that they could speak telepathically. They were always so perfectly coordinated, their movements complementing and completing each other, blending into one beautiful dance.

They were so different, though! Murphy was barely reined in, a tempest in a teakettle. He dove into things headlong, hardly stopping to think about the consequences—except as they related to Connor, whom he constantly worried about. Connor was the coolheaded one—he thought before he spoke or acted. And he always played the big brother, even though no one was really sure which of them was older. He was the one that looked out for them both. He was the one that took control in bad situations. Brianna had only known them for a short time, but she felt confident in her impressions. She was good at reading people.

Murphy walked back into the room, shaking droplets of water from his damp hair. He pulled a chair over by Brianna and straddled it backwards. "So who the fuck _are_ you? What's your story?"

She looked at him silently for a long moment. How much could she tell him? How much did she want him to know?

He deserved the truth, she supposed. It was only right. And what harm could come of it? Again, he could hardly go to the police.

"I'm an assassin for the Russian government," she said at last. "Or, at least, I _was_. My latest mission was to kill you and Connor." She looked him directly in the face as she said this. "I was told that you were two crazy Irish-American men who went around killing Russians in the dozens. I was never informed that those Russians you were killing were mafia members—the guys that _I_ should be killing. When I found out, well, I quit the mission." She shuddered inadvertently. "Quitting a mission makes me a deserter."

"So we're not the only ones they're after, then," Murphy said softly, understanding.

She nodded grimly.

"How did you find out? About Connor'n me? About us being the good guys?"

She grinned impishly, her dark eyes sparkling green in the light. "Well, you see, it's sometimes harder to kill people as an assassin, who hides in the shadows and lacks upper-body strength, then as a vigilante gunman like yourself. I have to go on stakeout. Figure out the target's weaknesses."

"You were fuckin' spyin' on us?!"

Her grin widened and became teasing. "You really should buy a shower curtain sometime."

Heat crept up his neck and spread through his cheeks. Brianna laughed aloud when she saw him blushing. "Don't worry," she assured him, "I didn't look."

"You'd better fuckin' not have!"

She giggled at his dismay, then caught herself. She was hardly being professional! Murphy was just _too_ easy to talk to. His easygoing—and currently chagrined—manner made her want to relax in his company. She could not allow herself to do so! For an assassin to let their guard down was to invite death at the hand of a bloodthirsty rival.

Standing quickly, she excused herself with a quick, "I'm going to make coffee."

Murphy stared after her. For some reason, hearing her laugh eased some of his tension. He _wanted_ to make her laugh. She was always so serious. It went against his nature to be that serious, or to spend time with someone that serious.

"The bird's not too bad," Connor's voice broke into his thoughts.

Glancing over at his twin, Murphy saw that he was propped up on his elbow, looking thoughtful.

"She's almost halfway fuckin' decent," Connor continued.

"A bit fuckin' odd, considering that she came here to make sure neither of us ever saw the fuckin' light of day again."

"Aye, 't'is fucked up, to be sure." Connor laughed. "I must say now I almost fuckin' agree with what ye said afore—ye can't be sure if she's our guardian angel or the grim fuckin' reaper."

Brianna walked back into the room with two cups of coffee. She nodded a greeting at Connor. "How do you feel?" she asked, offering him one of the steaming cups.

"Much improved," he said, accepting the cup.

Brianna handed the other cup to Murphy wordlessly, avoiding his eyes.

"So..." Murphy said, fidgeting and staring into his cup. "What now, then? What do we do?"

Brianna looked at him coolly. "It's quite simple," she told him. "You two will stay here and recover your strength, then you will go back to doing what you do. I will take up residence somewhere far away—Argentina, maybe, or New Zealand—and hope to live long enough to have my midlife identity crisis."

"How long is this going to take?" Connor asked quietly.

"Recovering your strength? That depends on you, I suppose."

"And we're just supposed to hang around here?" Murphy demanded. "What do you fuckin' expect from us?" He ran an agitated hand through his hair.

She saw his restlessness, his nervous energy. "You don't have a choice," she said gently. "If you leave, you could get killed. Then my desertion will have been for nothing, and I might as well have killed you both and kept my own life." She saw him waver. "Think about it, Murphy. If something happens to you, where will Connor be?" She knew from her observations that bringing up Connor's health or safety in an argument would almost instantly sway Murphy. Unthinkingly reaching up to smooth his dark hair—his nervous gesture had caused it to stick out at awkward angles—she caught herself and pulled her hand back. She looked away guiltily and continued, "It's only for a while. I'll do the shopping and whatever else will put me in public. _You_ are to stay here with Connor."

"That will put yerself in danger," Connor told Brianna seriously, propped up on his elbow. "If me thinkin's right, they're not just lookin' for us. They're lookin' for _ye_, too."

"Nothing gets past you," the redhead said dryly. "I can take care of myself just fine." Murphy began to protest that so could _he_, but she held up a hand, cutting him off. "Let me finish. You may have been able to defend yourselves under normal circumstances, but you are injured and you have lost most of your equipment. Believe me when I say that you face the best assassins in the entire country of Russia." She thought of the rookie that had attacked her when she went back to the warehouse. "And the worst."

Murphy began to argue, but Connor touched his arm. When the younger MacManus look down at his twin, Connor said something softly that Brianna mostly did not catch. The bits that she _did_ hear were in a language that was achingly familiar—Gaelic, the language of her homeland. The true language of Ireland. She listened to him speak in fascination. His voice was beautiful and lilting, like a song.

"Aye," said Murphy, "you've a point." He looked as though the admission pained him physically.

Brianna stood and stretched languidly. "I'm going out for groceries now," she told them. "Anything you need?"

"Bandages?" Murphy suggested.

"Good call," she said. "Gauze pads, medical tape, hydrogen peroxide... anything else?"

"Nothin' I can think up on a moment's notice," Connor said. Murphy nodded agreement.

"I'm off, then. Keep an eye out."

"We always do."

"Of course."


	5. Medic

(((A/Ns: WARNING: In this chapter, there are some slight adult insinuations and lots of gore

(((A/Ns: WARNING: In this chapter, there are some slight adult insinuations and lots of gore.

Also, guess what! Troy Duffy said that Connor was older! So I was right! Go me!

Brianna's Gaelic may be slightly shaky, but that's because the silly writer who made this story (coughcoughMEcoughcough) doesn't have a good translator.

Man! This chapter took some research!)))

**Chapter Four: Medic**

The boys stayed with Brianna for the next few weeks. A lot changed for her in that time.

It was really quite foreign to her, living with other people--especially Irish males. For one thing, she had to add cigarettes and beer to her shopping list. For another, she tended to find towels draped over the edge of the sink instead of hung up on the towel rack. Fortunately, it had been beaten into the boys during childhood to always put the toilet seat down.

Connor healed quickly. His ribs were soon mended and the cut on his temple healed right up. Murphy still complained about the ache of bruises, but the gash on his side was soon no more than a pale scar.

"I suppose we'll not be bothering ye for much longer, then," Connor said one day at last. "We're nearly ready to go."

They all three sat at the table in her small kitchen, the twins drinking Guinness and Brianna drinking nonalcoholic sparkling grape juice.

"Ready to go _where_?" Bri wanted to know. "You can't go back."

"We've been thinkin'," Murphy replied. "We had planned on goin' to New York anyway. We're just goin' a mite bit earlier than we expected."

"How will you get there? They'll hardly let you on a plane..."

"We know a guy who knows a guy," Connor said lightly. "Don't ye worry yer pretty little gingernut head about us. We'll make it."

Brianna nodded, doing her best to ignore the painful tightening in her chest. She had known they would leave at some point--had as much as told them so. How _dare_ she feel upset by it?

"Brianna..." Connor reached across the table toward her.

A breeze touched Brianna's cheek. Her stomach dropped and she stiffened, her eyes darting to the open window.

She _never_ left the windows open.

"Down!" she hissed, diving beneath the table.

Connor grabbed Murphy's arm and followed her. The muffled pop of a silenced gun sounded out and Murphy yelled a very nasty word, blood blossoming on his shoulder.

"This one's mine," Brianna said grimly, pulling her derringer out of her belt, where she carried it at all times. She peeked around a chair and pulled off two shots. The singular gunman went down, two bullet holes in his leg.

Bri looked around warily, willing her heart to slow down. "Keep an eye out. There could be more of them."

"There are no more," the gunman called, apparently overhearing her. "They thought you'd gone fuckin' soft, O'Keefe. They thought I could take you on myself. Or maybe they didn't... maybe they just wanted me gone. Fuck 'em all!"

Brianna hesitated, recognizing the voice. She debated with herself whether to trust him about there being no more assassins and decided not to. Their employers might have thought that Bri was getting sloppy, but they would not have taken chances.

"I think you're lying, Yochlov," she called. She felt more than saw the twins exchange glances as she indirectly admitted knowing the shooter.

"Not this time, O'Keefe. I'd lie if I thought I'd fuckin' get anything out of it, but they _did_ only send me. They probably hoped we'd fuckin' kill each other and they'd be rid of both of us at once. Two birds with one stone an' all that shit."

That fit the logic of the assassination industry. Never leave witnesses.

Signaling for Connor to tend to Murphy's shoulder, Brianna emerged cautiously out from under the table. She trained her gun on Yochlov and approached him slowly, her ears straining for the tiniest sound.

"They sent you to get rid of me." It was a statement, not a question.

"Of course." He had struggled into sitting position, wincing in pain. Sweat glistened on his face. When he spotted the twins, his eyebrows shot up. "Guests, O'Keefe? Did they _both_ spend the night? I never would have figured you for it."

Brianna slapped him, her derringer still trained on his chest.

"Did I touch a nerve?" Yochlov asked smugly, rubbing his cheek, where her hand had left a red handprint.

"Not everyone is as much of a scumbag as you are."

"Perhaps, but you have to admit that the circumstances are quite suspicious." He flinched as she raised her hand for another slap, but he could not resist one last jibe. "And besides... they're Irish, aren't they? That's just like you. You were always too good for we silly Russian-Americans."

This time she hit him with her gun. "You're under my roof, Yochlov, even if you _are_ uninvited. Mind your filthy, wagging tongue."

"Alright, alright, I get the idea, O'Keefe."

"Good. You do realize, of course, that I cannot let you leave here knowing that I have others under my protection."

"Certainly not," Yochlov agreed lightly, "especially not if those others are the Saints of South Boston."

"Exactly," Brianna said amiably. "I'm so glad you see things my way."

"Hey, we're assassins. We understand each other. In someone else's shoes all that other shit. So it's curtains for me?"

"Oh, no. Unlike most people in my line of work, I don't shoot defenseless people. You're just not allowed to leave."

"Sorry, O'Keefe," said Yochlov, "but death before capture." His foot shot out to catch her beneath the knees.

Brianna's body reacted before she knew what she was doing. Her finger squeezed the trigger and she threw herself backwards along with the kick to avoid Yochlov's foot.

The Russian assassin slumped, a defiant look fixed permanently on his face.

Bri didn't bother to check him. He had just been shot in the heart by a derringer at close range; he was dead. Instead, she concerned herself with Murphy's shoulder.

Murphy was leaning heavily on Connor, his eyes closed and his face pale, biting his lip against the pain. Connor had removed Murphy's shirt and pressed it against his brother's shoulder, using it as a gauze pad to staunch the blood flow. His head was bent to his younger twin's ear as he whispered soothing words in Gaelic.

Brianna crouched beside them. "We have to get the bullet out," she said matter-of-factly.

Connor shut his eyes tightly for a moment. "Aye," he said finally, his voice a choked whisper.

The redheaded girl cupped Murphy's face gently. "Murphy? I'm going to cut the bullet out. We'll have to tie you down, and it will probably be better if you're inebriated." She cursed her lack of medical equipment. For herself, she had never feared going to a hospital; she was too careful to be linked to crime scenes, and she could always claim to have been wounded in the crossfire between mobs. Therefore, she didn't really keep many medical supplies on hand.

Murphy opened his eyes and nodded. His face was nearly white. "Hurry," he rasped.

Brianna stood up. In one motion, she swept everything off the table, not caring that she was splashed with Guinness and grape juice. "Lay him on the table and get any kind of alcohol you can find from the fridge. I'll also need a steak knife and a needle." She took off to search out thread for the stitches and some kind of rope or wire with which to tie Murphy down.

When she returned, she found the things she had asked for on the table. A pot of water simmered on the stove and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide from the cabinet in the bathroom was on the counter near it. Brianna smiled grimly. Connor clearly knew his way around these procedures. The assassin washed her hands in scalding water and antibacterial soap, then sterilized the steak knife and the needle with the pot of boiling water and the bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

Connor had gotten Murphy drunk, then tied him to the table with metallic wire. The older twin knelt on the tabletop, one knee pressing on his brother's chest. Murphy's eyes were unfocused and fearful. Connor held tightly to the scarf that the boys were using as a gag to muffle the inevitable screams.

"He's drunk?" Brianna asked, securing her red hair back out of her face and donning a pair of sterilized gloves.

Connor nodded, tight-lipped. Murphy closed his eyes. He knew what was coming.

"_Bail ò Dhia ar againn,_" Brianna said prayerfully. The Gaelic words flowed from her heart; _the blessings of God on us_.

"Amen," whispered Connor, crossing himself.

"Mmn..." Murphy mumbled, only half conscious and so drunk that he couldn't see straight.

Brianna cupped Murphy's face briefly. "I'm sorry," she said softly, then brought the knife to bear.

"The bullet dug into the outer edge of the supraspinatus tendon," Brianna explained as she worked, partially to keep herself calm and partially to drown out Murphy's muted screams. "Since it didn't go all the way to the bone, it's easier and less damaging if I simply cut down from the outside of the shoulder. Our other option was to cut out a cone of flesh and then have me stick my fingers in there and dig around for the bullet, probably causing more damage than the gunshot did."

She had found the bullet. Using the tip of the knife, Bri flicked it out of the wound. Things had gone smoothly so far, but the job was only halfway done.

Murphy arched his back, straining against his wire bonds, his screams muffled by the scarf in his mouth. Connor leaned over him, soothing Gaelic words pouring forth from his lips, tears dripping off of his chin.

Reaching for the bottle of hydrogen peroxide, Brianna uncapped it swiftly and poured the searing liquid over the open wound. Murphy arched his back still farther and screamed, long and agonized. His wrists bled from the chafes and cuts that his wire bonds had inflicted on him. Finally, he blacked out from the pain. Connor inhaled sharply when he felt Murphy go limp beneath him.

"It's almost over," Brianna murmured, not sure whether she was speaking to Murphy, Connor, or herself. She threaded her sterilized needle and got to work.

Soon the wound was closed. Brianna snipped the thread and tied it off. Then, trembling with restrained fear and adrenaline, she pulled up two chairs to the table. She was so numb and shaking so hard that she had a difficult time trying to grab Connor's slick, bloody sleeve. When she finally caught it, she tugged at it. "Get off the table and sit down."

He was quivering as well. She helped him into the chair and they both collapsed. There was gore everywhere, all over Murphy and Brianna, all the way up Connor's arms and staining his jeans. The table was ruined, as were the chairs. It would take forever to mop up that pool of blood on the kitchen floor tiles. Yochlov's corpse was still slumped on the ground.

Brianna mustered her strength enough to reach out and touch Connor's arm. "He'll be okay," she promised, trying to sound sure. Then her strength was gone, and the tears came. "He was screaming, Connor. He was screaming..."

The Irishman draped one arm over her shoulders. For a moment she stiffened, but she had no strength to pull away. Then she forced herself to loosen up.

"I guess you've had to do this before," she whispered.

"Aye," Connor replied, his own voice thick with tears. "Many a time, but... well, we used a clothes iron, lass. I think this way is better."

This time she did pull away from him, turning to stare at him in shock. "You used _what_?"

He looked back at her, his blue eyes grieving. "If not for ye, Murphy probably would never have been able to use his arm again. I probably could have kept him alive, but..."

"You need me," Brianna commented, then stilled as the implications of what she had just said hit her.

"Aye," Connor said softly, "we do." He looked at her, long and steadily. "Where will ye go, once we're on our way?"

The fluttering of paper diverted Bri's attention. The window had been left open, and the breeze from outside had turned the pages of Murphy's Bible, which lay on the counter. The stirring air also moved the red-ribbon bookmark in the book.

Dredging up her strength, Brianna pulled herself up and walked over to the counter. When she saw on what page and under what words the bookmark had come to rest, her eyes grew to the size of saucers.

"Connor," she said in a tiny voice, "come here."

Wondering what could have troubled her so much, Connor hoisted himself up and stepped to her side. She pointed wordlessly at the passage.

His jaw dropped.

_It is not good for man to be alone._

"Ye think God's tryin' to tell us something?" Connor asked dryly.

"I guess this settles the matter of my going with you."

"I suppose so." He looked at her thoughtfully. "I suppose so..."


	6. Confused

(((A/Ns: This chapter doesn't run quite as smoothly as I would like, but I hope you will excuse the awkwardness

(((A/Ns: This chapter doesn't run quite as smoothly as I would like, but I hope you will excuse the awkwardness. As always, I will correct mistakes as I find them, so if you see any, please point them out.

I had planned on making this longer, but hey, it's Valentine's. Ya'll deserve a treat for being so patient. Love ya!)))

**Chapter Five: Confused**

Brianna returned her attention to their more current dilemma. "We can't stay here," she said matter-of-factly. "Yochlov knew exactly where to find me. The Russians could send someone else. But Murphy is in no condition to go anywhere." She sat down in her bloodstained chair and considered.

"Knowing Murph, he'll sleep the night through," Connor thought aloud. "It's how he regains his strength. When he wakes up, he'll have a hangover and an empty belly. He'll be fuckin' narky."

"Great. An injured, cranky, gun-toting Irishman with a hangover and his crazy blonde brother. Ideal traveling conditions."

"I am _not_ blonde," Connor informed her, supremely insulted. "My hair is light brown."

"Whatever, _Irelandskii_. When Murphy wakes up, we need to feed him, give him some Aspirin, and be on our way. We'll have to find some sort of hotel or something." She looked at Murphy and frowned. "Firstly, though, all of this needs to be cleaned up." All business, she rose and walked over to Yochlov's corpse. Placing her hands on her hips, she mused, "We'll have to burn the body so it can't be ID-ed. These chairs, the table... they all have to go. If CSI came in here and looked around for five minutes, they'd have the whole story, and we don't exactly want them to know that I was here."

Connor nodded. "I'll move Murph to the couch, then come back in here to help ye move the furniture."

Soon, the kitchen was clean and Yochlov's body had... _ahem_... mysteriously vanished. Connor was kneeling by the couch where Murphy slept.

Brianna came to stand beside him. He tilted his head back to look up at her. "Look here," he said softly. Reaching for Murphy's hand, Connor presented the dark-haired man's wrist to Bri.

She hissed through her teeth. There were long, thin gashes where the wire bonds had sliced into his wrists. She was reaching forward when there was a harsh knock on the front door.

Bri's head jerked up. Speaking quickly and quietly, she said, "Connor, take Murphy out the back way and put him in my car. Pick up your guns and crucifixes on the way. Leave everything else."

Connor nodded, his face unreadable. He slung Murphy carefully over his shoulder and left the room.

The pounding on the door had become more insistent. "Boston Police," said a voice. "Open the door, please, ma'am."

"Coming," Brianna called sweetly. She kept one eye on the back window, through which she could see Connor sliding Murphy into the back seat of the car. Nodding in satisfaction, the redhead turned and opened the front door.

The officer smiled politely at her. "I'm sorry to bother you, ma'am. I'm here as an investigator in a planned murder."

"Oh, dear," Brianna said, all wide-eyed innocence. "Someone has been killed?"

"We don't think so, ma'am, but someone was planning on it. I'd like to ask you..." he pulled out a photo and showed it to her, "have you ever seen this man before?"

Bri kept her face carefully blank when she saw the blurry photo of Yochlov. "No, sir. Did he die?"

"No, ma'am, not that we know of. He's our number one suspect. We think he helped to plan the attempted murder of an unknown young girl, probably about your age. She may have been involved in Russian government work. Do you know anything about that?"

"No, I'm sorry, sir." Brianna batted her eyelashes and sighed. "I wish I could help more."

"That's quite alright. Thank you for your time."

"Thank _you_ for doing what you do." Brianna strongly respected police officers, really. They risked their lives to do what they knew was right--just as she did. They were two sides of the same coin.

Brianna turned away from the lobby counter. Walking back to the door where Connor was supporting Murphy's dead weight, she quietly said, "Take him upstairs. Room 254. Here's the key. I need to make sure everything is sorted out with our check-in."

"May I ask how the fuckin' hell ye got us in?" Connor asked, just as softly.

"I'm an assassin, love. I always keep several backup plans in case things turn sour. And certain backup plans require backup identities. Now take your brother upstairs and let me handle this."

He nodded and started the trek to the elevator.

After making sure everything was settled, Brianna caught up with Connor outside the door to their room. He was trying to support Murphy's full weight with one arm and get the key card into the slot with the other hand.

"Here." Surprising herself, Brianna--instead of taking the key card and opening the door--reached over and pulled Murphy's weight into her arms. Ignoring Connor's sideways look, she nodded impatiently at the door.

Connor quickly unlocked the door and held it open for her. Dragging Murphy's arm around her shoulders, she pressed her other hand to the small of his back to help move him along.

Murphy arched his back with a low moan. Startled, Brianna jerked her hand back sharply, but found it difficult to bear his full weight with only one arm. She cautiously eased her arm back around his waist, hugging the small of his back in the crook of her elbow. He leaned even more heavily against her and moaned again, burying his face in the curve of her neck.

Stumbling forward, Bri gave Connor an imploring look. His lips twitched, but he showed no other expression as he shut the door behind her.

"Connor?" Brianna said softly, almost fearfully. "Did I... I didn't hurt him...?"

He shook his head. "No, Bri... he's just..."

Bri laid Murphy down gently on a bed and looked at Connor expectantly.

Without speaking, Connor stepped forward, rolled Murphy onto his side, and pulled his shirt up behind. There was a deep, jagged scar on the small of the younger twin's back.

"What...?" Brianna gasped. She reached out, then reluctantly drew her hand back.

Connor was watching her. "There was an accident," he said softly, "when we were young. Neither of us made off unscathed."

She looked at him with question.

"Between me shoulders," he answered.

Biting her lip, she tried to communicate another question. He seemed to understand. For a moment he hesitated, then he sighed. "If what ye've done already isn't enough, nothing is," he told her. Turning his back to her, he pulled up his shirt.

Right between his shoulder blades was a rugged scar. Brianna caught her breath. "That looks _painful_."

"It was, but not anymore." He turned back to face her and saw the troubled frown creasing her brow. "What's amiss?"

"Why are you telling me this?"

Connor's hard and weary face softened. He didn't smile, but his gentle expression could almost be mistaken for smile. "Because the look on yer face when ye saw Murph's scar was enough to convince me that ye'll do well by him. That's good enough for me."

She took two steps backward. "I don't understand."

He shook his head. "Ye've been too long alone. Ye'll learn, Brianna O'Keefe. Ye'll learn."


End file.
